Rhyming Fight Scene

Rhyming Fight Scene

They looked at each other with a spark in their eyes
as they stood in the dark with revenge on their minds.

"You know why I'm here?" said one to the other.
"It should be most clear. You blackmailed my mother!
You stole all the credit out of her cards,
And forced me to come here or suffer more fraud."

"Your mother's of minor importance
and will be ignored, since,
at least as far as I can sense,
she could make me no more than thirty-five cents."

"So that's the case, then? You're just after money?
A mere earthly pleasure no sweeter than honey?"

"On the contrary, I am no feeble fool.
I do wish not to be rich, but to rule.
The sort of power over which most men drool
would certainly be cool."

"I can't believe you. You think you're really gonna conquer me
by standing at the ATM,
watching ladies type their ~PINs,
and stealing everyone's ID?"

"Identities are frivolities; I only need the funding.
It's in the genes I'll find the means to execute my cunning."

"...You have my pity, Mr. Villain, if you think you have a chance
of overthrowing governments via the means of pants."

"You misunderstand my diction; I refer to the genetics
of people small
and people tall
who all possess the Apex.

The Apex gene is very rare;
it's hard to find most anywhere.
But answers float across the air;
The gene's in //someone//'s curly hair."

"...And now you want my curly locks
to execute your evil plots.
You are truly the most insididous,
dangerous,
and hair-obsessed
antagonist
I have ever witnessed."

"Yes, but from these genes I shall concoct
A bio-weapon that'll leave you in shock.

So! Will you come peacefully?"
"Not without some reasoning."
"How about some bribery?"
"You can't bribe meat with seasoning."

"I really don't like the tone of your voice."
"It seems we've been left with a single choice."

"So now we must fight?"
"Indeed, that is right."
"This may make my night."
"Be wary. I bite."

~ ~ ~

The hero withdrew his sword from his sheath,
held it aloft,
and charged at the thief.

Yes, they are fighting with swords in the city.
If you cannot see why then you truly need pity.

The thief blocked the blade with steel of his own,
but this steel belonged not to a sword, but a throne.

"My god," said the hero, his brow reasonably raised,
"Is that the Throne of Lartheney upon which I gaze?"

"Aye, quoth the thief. "See?"
"It can't possibly be.

According to legend, this country was lost.
His highness was murdered, his councilmen tossed.

The the ancient Lartheney,
charming and witty,
took over a city
with his throne forged of steel.

The people, misguided,
all got excited
and felt most delighted,
for they thought their new King was for real."

"Yes, that's the story.
I, too, plan for glory
with this metallic furniture-shaped implement of pain."

The hero felt this taunt to be to his disdain.
He hurriedly scurried behind the cur,
where his sword flurried out its blurry affair,
but it was blocked by the chair.
To the hero's despair,
through the air,
came a sharp knife thirsting for curly hair.

The knife had //just// missed, although no-one knew how.
The hero lacked flow, and he needed it now.
But one thing could stop an untimely defeat.
He needed some rhythm. He needed the beat.

"Lo and Behold! I cast sword to the floor.
I am now unarmed, but you would not be scathed
By this militant charm so calm and behaved,
So I cast off my sword; I will need it no more.

Instead, I shall grant you what truly stings,
though it may sound incredibly camp.
My weapon is music, played on six nylon strings.
Tell Scotty to bust out the amp."

"...Oh dear, oh dear.
It's crystal clear,
But you choose to make it foggy.
You cannot win
An honest fight
By playing Flogging Molly.

And even a player
of songs made by Slayer
will promptly come to hear
that the only thing slain
when death metal's playin'
is the innermost drum of the ear."

"...Well, then.
If you think you won't be achin',
You're terribly mistaken."

The hero struck a chord of G,
and then a chord of D.
He then began to tell the tale
of a certain bird that was free.

The thief was almost moved to tears,
though only of frustration.
"It seems the truth is as I feared;
you aren't my destination.

If you hold
the Apex code,
you would be incredibly smart,
but at this time
it seems your mind
resembles a crumbling tart.

So I bid you adieu,
for if this is true,
the gene must belong to another.
I'll be heading out,
but so you don't pout,
here's the ID of your mother."

He tossed up some papers
with footnotes and tapers
and left to pull capers
on unsuspecting Quakers.

The hero had gotten that for which he'd come.
The blackmail was white; the battle was won.
From evil he'd saved everything under the sun
Not because he was smart, but because he was dumb.